


Taking care of plants, friends and other hobbies

by giurochedadomani



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale stages an intervention, Crowley needs a hug, Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, but heavy on the comfort, could be read as platonic but why would you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-28 17:44:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20782580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giurochedadomani/pseuds/giurochedadomani
Summary: “I was not torturing them”, he highlights, flabbergasted at the idea before taking into account that being flabbergasted at the idea of torturing is very undemonic, which tightens the knot in his throat whose presence he's refused to acknowledge for the better part of the afternoon. “I was talking to them. Reminding them what’s expected of them”.“Terrorizing them would be a much better way to describe it,” counters Aziraphale. “It’s no wonder why fear oozes from the room!”--Or, Aziraphale thought it was charming when he heard that Crowley talked to his plants, up until he discovers the exact nature of those conversations.





	Taking care of plants, friends and other hobbies

Six thousand years give you knowledge on many mannerism of a person, when you encounter them quite as often as Aziraphale has run into Crowley (among which are the curve of the demon’s joyful grin and the pitch of his voice while angry, but also mundane, everyday things, like his preference for coffee —with a disgusting mix of cream and caramel— or, what occupies the angel’s mind right now, how excited do plants make his friend). 

Aziraphale might have heard him talk at first about those last back in Rome, friendship still tentative (and keeping on tentative on the angel’s side for millenia), Crowley launching into a monologue about the Gardens of Babylon that might have been half made up (or all made up for all he knows, he’s not quite sure that seventh marvel of the world back at that time ever existed and so he tells him— even though the angel was pretty sure at that point that Crowley wouldn’t lie to him).

He knows that the demon loves St. James Park, likes Hyde Park well enough, but has an especially place in his heart for the Crystal Palace Park, in which he had himself a hand in creating. He’s very proud of his diabolical maze, and that he’s especially proud (he _ knows _, he’s wilfully ignorant, not blind) when the angel says so, tone enough affronted, but also surprised and... a little mesmerized, perhaps? 

Aziraphale knows that the plants that Crowley likes the best are the big, verdant ones, the ones that take a lot of space, and a lot of attention, and that he pushes them through punishing standards he’s not quite sure whether or not are real up until a fateful night in the 80’s, when he stops dead on his tracks before knocking on the door of his friend’s apartment as he hears a shout: “What on Earth do you think that you’re doing?!”

The angel's brain automatically jumps to the conclusion that the demon is in danger, only to discard the thought just as quickly when he notices that he sounds way more angry than scared. He holds his breath, thinking that perhaps he’s misheard— “Sometimes it feels like you don’t even try, sincerely!” —and then he just miracles the door open, rationalizing his curiosity as annoyance to his friend, that has decided to intimidate with all the might of his demonic powers, and mild pity for his victim of choosing. 

The answer to his question comes to him in the bizarre shape of a demon shaking a flowerpot in Crowley’s massive living room— “You’re— are you actually _ wilting _?” —and it leaves Aziraphale so shocked, he’d laugh, but alas he does not: “Don’t you dare faint on me!” 

The flowerpot on Crowley’s hand contains (_ what was its name exactly? He’s got it on the tip of his tongue _) one of those beautiful tropical flowering plants that the demon brought from his last trip to South America. Usually big and lush, this plant is currently sitting on the pot feeble, faded and positively, if that’s even possible, trembling. 

So Crowley shouts at his plants. 

That’s— that’s, well. 

When Crowley told him that he had the habit of speaking to his plants, this was not what Aziraphale had in mind. Truth be told, back at that moment, he was way too pleased about having made the demon confess such a gentle habit. 

“I don’t know why I bother repeating the rules when it’s clear as a day that you’re useless”, continues Crowley, none the wiser. He shows the flowerpot around, “you guys, say goodbye to your friend. Be sure to remember what happens when you dissapoi— _ what the flying fuck are you doing there, Aziraphale _”. 

The demon's thunderous, angry voice has gone up to an undignified shriek in the last sentence, when he has turned around and caught sight of the angel. Aziraphale suddenly feels a bit red in the face. Uncomfortably warm, so to speak. A little bit, kind of, generally ashamed of himself. “...Sorry for the, ah, interruption”, and, because he has never really known when to shut up, he adds, apologetically, “I thought I’d close early, you see, and come and check if perhaps you were free. We had reservations for tonight, do you remember? And then, I didn’t know that you were—”, his hesitance stretches a second too long, “well, _ busy _. And I just, well, I really wanted to ask you how the meeting had gone—”

_ Izzz that all you have to offer to the advancement of our cause, Crowley _resonates in the demon's mind. 

“—And frankly, my dear, when I arrived here I just wanted to see what had you in such a state, because—”

“I haven’t forgotten about our reservations”, Crowley interrupts him, putting on his sunglasses as if that would obscure his blotchy, red face. “But it’s also three in the afternoon. I would have appreciated a heads up”, he adds, tone curt and to the point and completely ignoring Aziraphale gentle nudge with ‘busy’ and the pointed frown at the flowerpot and specially the whole reference to ‘the meeting’. _ I don’t want to talk about it, please don’t make me talk about it _shines brightly on the demon’s mood. “You can wait for me in the living room, though. I won’t take long to be ready”.

They stare at each other. Aziraphale, as ever, doesn’t know how to read a mood, or does it fine but does not care. “It’s that how you usually garden?”

Crowley is endlessly irritated: “What, are you going to give me tips now, or something? Did you take a liking to gardening books, as of late, or what? ‘First chapter”, he adds putting on a mocking voice, “how to give entirely unrequested advices”. 

He storms past Aziraphale before he can hear the angel scoffing, a little outraged, and he goes into the kitchen, the offending flowerpot still in his hand. For his eternal annoyance, Aziraphale follows him. 

“Well, no”, admits the angel. “But I highly doubt that there’s any sensible book out there that suggest torturing your plants as a method to nurture them”. 

“I was _ not _ torturing them”, he highlights, flabbergasted at the idea before taking into account that being flabbergasted at the idea of torturing is very undemonic, which tightens the knot in his throat whose presence he's refused to acknowledge for the better part of the afternoon. “I was _ talking _ to them. _ Reminding _them what’s expected of them”.

“_Terrorizing _ them would be a much better way to describe it,” counters Aziraphale. “It’s no wonder why fear oozes from the room!”

Great, now he’s pissed off. Making an angel angry surely gives him points Down There, ain’t that right? He ignores how his chest feels so tight, breathing is getting hard, and he prepares the garbage disposal. 

“If you didn’t like that plant anymore, you could have easily gifted it”.

Crowley can almost hear the ‘to me’. It’s right there, written on air. He tries to picture himself giving Aziraphale the plant and suddenly feels very sick. 

“Well, thanks for the suggestion, but I don’t want to make a present out of it. I want to throw it in the trash, where it belongs”. 

Aziraphale nicks the pot from the demon’s hands. “Now you’re being downright cruel!” 

Crowley tries to stop him, but fails, which makes him explode. 

“I’m a demon! I’m supposed to be cruel! It goes in the job description! And the least thing I need right now is _ you _ feeling compelled to tell me how to do my stupid job!”

Crowley regrets his words the moment they come out of his mouth, feeling vulnerable, naked, as if he’s just revealed his hand in a card game. Above all he really, really hates himself. He blinks, then blinks again. He scrunches his nose, then scrubs his cheeks out of any traitorous wetness. And Aziraphale keeps being— there. Looking at him. Looking stunned, and so impossibly soft and very ridiculous, with the flowerpot in his hands. 

He thinks that he’s not to blame for Crowley’s fuck ups. He thinks to himself _ fuck it _ . He finally blurts out: "The meeting went badly", he breathes in, then out, pretends to ignore how small his voice sounds. "I didn’t manage to convince them. They laughed at the idea, they laughed at me, they— it was all ridiculous, really", he says, quickly, adding before Aziraphale can do it: “And I know, _ I know _that it’s not a big deal, that they don’t know— about Earth and humans and how it all works. And I also know I shouldn’t have taken it out with you, and— and I’m sorry, ok? I’m sorry”. 

The angel visibly relaxes, or at least stops adopting a defensive stance on the plant, which is all for the best, because Crowley feels especially— he’s got a knot in his stomach of nervousness, by watching his friend getting so protective over the flowerpot. 

It’s different from the gnawing feeling he has been dealing with through the whole day, a little better. He allows himself to ease his posture, tentatively. 

Aziraphale sighs. 

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you”. 

“You did not push me”, the demon mumbles automatically, and it’s a reflex, really, but he doesn’t know best. He winces when he hears how small his voice sounds like. 

He avoids looking at Aziraphale’s face at all, fearing finding pity, until the angel’s voice changes as he says: “But I know your methods, you wily old serpent. If this was an elaborate plan to get me to yield, know that I'm keeping the plant. _ I mean it _”, he highlights, petulant to the nth degree and— smiling, he’s smiling. 

It’s contagious. Among other things, because this is known territory and he likes it quite a bit. 

“Oh, oh, _ right _ ”, Crowley stalls, scoffs, tries again: “ _ I _don't know what’s wrong with it, but hey, sure, why not, take it, I mean, it will probably be dead in about a week, why not cut its agony shorter”. 

“I'm appalled that you think so little of my gardening skills”, replies Aziraphale, with a little put out huff that’s more for the dramatics than anything. He’s turning the flowerpot in his hands, attentively, as if enjoying the little details. 

“You don’t have _any_ gardening skills whatsoever”. Crowley rises an eyebrow and asks, trying to recall the angel's attention to himself because it's _bizarre,_ he feels as if he's waiting his friend to pass judgement on the flowerpot and— it's nothing, really. He has better plants: “Do you even know when to water it?”

“I _ know _ that it urgently needs to receive some love. I can start there and then, well, I’ll ask you if I have any doubt”. 

No, no, no nono_ no. Abort mission. Let’s just not continue down that route. _He opens his arms, as if surrendering: “Fine, whatever, take it. The plant didn’t fit in with the whole aesthetic, anyway”. 

Aziraphale beams at him, which after almost six millenia shouldn’t still make a number on his heart, but still does, nor make him feel as if he had just hung the moon and the stars, which he did, but that’s not the point there. It’s as if he’s making the angel a favor, which, really, he can do better. 

“They are not going to throw you into the trash at all, and specially not for an idea that they’ll know to appreciate. And if they— if they do you can count on me to avoid hitting rock bottom, ok?” 

The demon swallows, thickly. He blinks, and blinks again, and focuses his sight on the cup of coffee (big on cream and faintly smelling of caramel) that the angel has miracled in his hands. He smiles tentatively when he hears Aziraphale snapping his fingers and some chords and a crooner’s voice— Joe Strummer, most likely— start escaping his jukebox, at a side of the room. 

“Besides, there are better ways to deal with a bad day than shouting at your plants. Now tell me, did you already name the plant or you'll let me?”

**Author's Note:**

> It’s most likely crack treated seriously but I'm very soft for Crowley and his plants, so consider this an extremely self indulgent fic. 
> 
> I'm @thebasisofoptimism also in tumblr. Come say hi!


End file.
